The Gift that Keeps On Giving
by Mad Maudlin
Summary: Sometimes it really is the thought that counts.


The Gift that Keeps On Giving  
by Mad Maudlin  
(happy birthday, jen!)

"I don't want a birthday party," Harry announced over a month in advance. "Just so you know."

Ron at this point knew better than to even speak up.

"I mean, I'm nineteen years old, I'm getting a bit old for the banners and fancy cakes, don't you think?"

Ron noted the scores from the weekend Quidditch matches.

"Besides, it's not like there's all that much to be celebrating."

"No," Ron said, "just the coming of our prophesied savior and the fall of the Dark Lord and the liberation of England and stuff."

Harry glared at him.

"I was being sarcastic, mate."

"Well, I don't want a party," Harry said again "So you make sure Hermione and your mum and all don't try to sneak one by me."

"You honestly expect me to refuse help to any of them and survive with my genitals intact?"

"You can think of something."

Ron rolled his eyes and turned the page of the newspaper. "I'll do my best."

-/--/--/-

"I probably ought to warn you," Ron said in mid-July, "not to eat or drink anything Hermione gives you in the near future."

"Why?" Harry asked with alarm.

"She's trying to suss out what you want for your birthday."

Harry sighed and slumped into his chair. "Let her know I'll settle for a soundproof personal bubble."

"Any particular color?"

-/--/--/-

On the twenty-fourth, Ron said, "You may want to avoid the twins' shop next week."

"Thanks."

-/--/--/-

On the twenty-sixth, Ron asked, "Do you like paisley?"

Harry blinked at him.

"Mum's not going to leave me be unless I ask."

"Do I want to know what she wants to know for?"

"Probably not."

"Then tell her I prefer pinstripes."

-/--/--/-

On the twenty-ninth, Ron slipped Harry a note saying, _Do not under any circumstances open a letter, package or wrapped gift from anyone in my family including me on Saturday._

-/--/--/-

On the thirtieth, Ron brought a large afghan, a thermos, a bottle of whiskey and a ten-gallon jug of Pepper-Up Potion home and dumped them on the couch. "You're sick," he told Harry. "Horrible flu. Came out of nowhere."

"Really?"

"You may very well be bedridden the whole weekend."

"Really?"

"Mum sends her best wishes and soup."

Harry grinned at him and reached for the whiskey. "Thanks."

-/--/--/-

On the thirty-first of July, Harry woke up and fell out of his hammock. He was already back on his feet before he thought to question where the bed had gone.

He briefly wondered whether the inside of the flat had been transfigured into a vacation cottage, but the view out the window was rather more oceanic than he was used to seeing in London, which ruled that right out. He bolted to the door, tripped over two suitcases, got up and found his way out of the little cabin and onto a bright muggy beach of white sand mixed with dark earth. Strange grasses surrounding the bluffs behind them; a few branching trees had been twisted by the salt winds into knots.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Ron said, with a bit of a nervous grin.

Harry stared, trying to drink in the scene all at once. "Where...?"

"America. Barrier islands of...um...South Somethingorother."

"...how...?"

"Portkey and a sleeping potion in the whiskey."

Harry blinked at Ron. "Why?"

Ron shrugged, ears going vivid red. "You said you didn't want anything for your birthday, so...I got you nothing...ness. Sort of." He scratched behind his ear and looked out over the water. "I mean we can spend the whole day here without anyone bothering you—nobody else knows where we are and it's just, y'know, us. Or just you if you want, 'cause I mean, I can go. Or whatever."

Harry turned slowly on the spot and took in the calm ocean, the flawless sky. A few rowdy seagulls and Ron's nervous shuffling were the only sounds audible for miles—no well-wishers, no parades, no shouts of _surprise!_ or fireworks. "And you rented this for the whole day?"

"Well, two days—I wasn't sure about, you know, the time zones and stuff."

"And how much did this cost?"

Ron stuck out his chin a bit. "That's between me and the goblins, mate."

As personal bubbles went, he could probably do worse.

Harry hitched up his pajama bottoms and crossed the beach, marveling at how the sand slid and slipped under his feet. He put his hand on Ron's shoulder. "You know, I think this might be the best birthday gift I've ever gotten."

Ron's whole face was scarlet now, and he muttered, "'Sno big deal."

"In fact," Harry said, grabbing Ron's wrist with his other hand, "it sort of makes me feel like celebrating."

"Really?"

Harry popped up on his feet and kissed Ron's burning face, and then his lips, which were already curved into a smile. "Yeah," he whispered, "and I know just how I want to do it, too."

Ron chuckled and let Harry lead him inside. "You are the birthday boy..."


End file.
